


Is Love

by little_abyss



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Anal Sex, Bloodplay, Come Eating, Dragons, M/M, Oral Sex, Outdoor Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Rough Sex, Wham Splat Porn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-12
Updated: 2015-10-12
Packaged: 2018-04-26 03:30:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,918
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4988479
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/little_abyss/pseuds/little_abyss
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>My work for Wham Splat Porn, from the prompt I received from merm-aight.  The prompt is from this song, <a href="https://open.spotify.com/track/5PEqJiLeHc9mWn0kWqNcDb">'Vicious Love' by New Found Glory</a>, particularly the lyrics: "We've got a vicious love / We mix our tears with blood/ [...] / We fight as hard as we love."</p><p>NB: There is a lot of blood in this.  Seriously, I'm warning you now, if that is not your thing, this is not the fic for you, my friend.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Is Love

He aches with it.  Every jet of blood that gouts, it only makes him harder.  The sky and sea are one, mingling as the dragon darts her head to the left, tail lashing.  Breath catching in his lungs, he loses himself to the fight; the scream of the dragon, the worn-smooth handle of the taam-kas beneath his palms; the smell of ozone and copper.  

 

Sweet, this dance of death is.  The great ax catches in the bones of the dying dragon's throat, and she screams again, choked, gurgling.  And _fuck_ _,_ that smell, bright and cloying, it goes right to his head, and for a moment he does not know himself, does not feel the dragon's breath as it sears past his leg, does not hear the cries of his companions - could not tell even remember their names.  He pulls the ax from her throat with a grunt.  The dragon stares at him for a moment as if in affront, before her great horned head slithers backward.  She dies, there on the sand, and the Iron Bull roars.

 

The moon crests red over the waves.  The camp is quiet, the scrape of whetstone on blade a small noise among the dark rustle of the pines. The others have retired, having bathed and eaten, but he cannot.  Weapons need caring for, and so do horses; the Boss needs requisitions filled and advise on other matters.  So now, finally, he takes a moment for himself, breathing deep, remembering those shrieking cries, that opaque yellow eye as it stared at him, and that smell, _that smell_ _._  It clings to him still.

 

No.  It does not cling to him - soft as the footstep is, he still hears it.  Knows by its very nature who it will be; soft leather boot through tough coastal grass, tiniest clink of brass buckle under the light of the waxing moon.  The blood though... that is different.  The light touch on his shoulder is hot, wet.  He turns, watching as Dorian walks slowly toward a dark copse of pine; he takes in the whole of his form with one glance; the mage is shirtless, that shapely back shifting attractively as he walks.  However, it is Dorian's hands that cause him to catch his breath.  Red to the wrists.  Dripping.  As Dorian disappears into the darkness under the trees, Bull puts the ax and whetstone down and rises.  

 

The scent of blood grows as he approaches.  At first, he does not see the mage; but then Dorian steps into a shaft of moonlight and smiles.  Ah, that smile; depth, promise, allure, all contained in a single gesture.  Wordlessly, Dorian toes out of his boots.  For a moment, Bull just stares, so lost in his own lust he can barely think.  Then Dorian arches an eyebrow, and smirks.  Bull takes one step forward, begins to tear at belt and trousers.  Dorian’s smirk changes, becomes vulpine, Bull catches a glimpse of teeth in the low light.  He steps out of the tangled fabric of his breeches, and Dorian raises a bloody hand and crooks the index finger, beckoning him forward.

 

So Bull goes to him, closer over the cracking leaf litter, sweet smell of pine needles beneath his feet competing with the stink of dragon's blood.  Because it is dragons' blood, that sere, bright smell.  When he is only a pace away from Dorian, the mage turns his hand palm out to Bull, and tells him, "Kneel."

 

Bull does.  He barely feels the bad knee, the stench of the blood on Dorian's hands so strong now he cannot think.  When Dorian approaches the outstretched hand to his mouth, he takes it in both of his own, grabbing at the wrist eagerly, running his nose up Dorian's palm, inhaling as he goes.  And oh, that smell, he is overcome by it; wants it everywhere, always.  Without being conscious of it at all, he has taken Dorian's first two fingers in his mouth, suckling at them, moaning around them.  The blood, sweet and bitter at the same time, is warm from Dorian's skin, only starting to go tacky at the edges.  He moans again, feels Dorian's other hand slide up around his jaw, the viscosity of the blood slicking the motion of the thumb on the outer edge of his ear.  The smell is everywhere now, Bull raises his hand, tugs desperately at the lacings on Dorian's trousers, growling around his fingers as he laps the last traces of blood from between them.

 

In the end, he tears them down the seams and flings them aside.  He watches as if from outside himself as he crawls closer to Dorian, who holds him by one horn, smearing the blood along its base, as he runs the bridge of his nose among the coarse hair at the base of Dorian's cock, the blood and Dorian's own smell mingling, driving him closer to that precipice.  Dorian's grip on his horn tightens, and he hears Dorian's smile in his voice as he tells Bull to open his mouth, open it, oh Bull, the extension of the vowels of the name he chose as he pulls Dorian's cock into his mouth.  He reaches around the backs of Dorian's thighs, too far gone to be very gentle, Bull uses the grip on his ass to pull him closer, make Dorian thrust himself into his mouth.  

 

The skin under Bull’s hands is so sweet, so soft and velvet that he comes back to himself for a moment.  The motion of Dorian’s hips rises and falls, his cock pushing deeper down Bull’s throat, and he encourages Dorian deeper until he feels the slap of his balls against his chin with every thrust.  And oh, Bull is so hard, that cock in his mouth, the wet, delicious sound of Dorian sliding in and out of him.  He needs something, so he takes a hand from Dorian’s ass and uses it to grip his own shaft.  He grips himself, matching the rhythm of Dorian’s hips as they move forward and back, inexorable, like the tide, or death.

 

How long?  Time has passed, that's all he could say.  He pushes Dorian's hips back, back further, pulling him down onto his lap.  He wants him, wants Dorian desperately, but again, that fear reels him back in, pulls him back to himself enough to ask, “Slick?”

His voice sounds strange, even to himself, and he wonders how far away he has stumbled.  Dorian moans and sighs, rubs his hands up Bull’s arms, nuzzles into the sweat standing on Bull’s neck.  He slides off Bull’s lap, bare feet on the carpet of pine, walks slowly to the ripped pile of fabric which was once his trousers, and hunts among it.  The wait is interminable, time seems to coagulate around them, so when Dorian draws out a vial with a small noise of triumph, Bull is there, awareness lost again, snatching it from his hand and pushing the human down, face first onto the pine needles.  Dorian exhales, mouth open, grinning as he watches Bull, his hands splayed out beside his head, one hand still mostly covered with the drying dragon’s blood.  Bull draws the last remnants of his self-control around him to ask, “You okay?  You remember what to say?”

“I remember; and yes.  Though if you wait much longer, I may have to start complaining bitterly.”

 

Bull smiles.  He draws a hand down Dorian’s spine, and Dorian shivers in anticipation.  Bull pulls the cork from the vial with his teeth, spits the little stopper away, and pours the contents of it over his hand.  It is dark, oily, viscous; perfect.  He moans, sliding his laden hand over the entire length of his cock, until the whole is covered.  He can hear Dorian’s breath, short, sharp pants as he watches, and Bull looks at him and grins.  He uses the hand already on Dorian to pull one of those perfect asscheeks aside, and his smile broadens as Dorian sighs.  Lightly, teasingly, he draws his oiled finger up and over the opening, once, twice, and then suddenly pushes the finger into Dorian, just to the first knuckle.  Dorian gasps, stifles a cry, and then stills again as Bull works the finger back and forth, the same flowing, tidal rhythm; he works until Dorian begins to loosen around him, then adds a second; in time, he adds a third.  Dorian’s cheeks are flushed, and Bull could watch this forever - the needy moans, the panting, that pretty face all crushed against the dirt and rotting needles, his fingers sliding in and out of that perfect body.  

 

“Oh, Maker, Maker, Bull…” Dorian whispers, “Not… not that I’m _averse_ to this, but… _fasta vass, est ita difficile,_ fuck me, fuck me, please.”

Bull can only grunt in reply.  He rises on his knees behind Dorian, pulls his fingers as gently as he can from Dorian’s body.  For a moment, he admires his handiwork; Dorian, the sweat sliding down his back in the pale light of the moon, handfuls of pine needles and earth in his fists, eyes squeezed shut, ass open and slicked and waiting, willing.  Bull takes his cock in hand, slides it over Dorian’s slicked entrance, and nearly loses himself at the trembling groan this elicits from Dorian.   _Taashost_ _,_ he tells himself, _maraas shokra_ _._  He takes a deep breath, and slides forward.

 

Dorian groans again beneath him.  His heat, the heat of his body, it closes around Bull’s cock, tight, yielding, glorious.  The second thrust drives deeper again, and Dorian pants a noise halfway between a moan and a gasp.  Bull slides his hands along Dorian’s hips, the skin damp silk under his hands, digs his fingers into the well-muscled flesh, leaving bloody half-moons behind.  He guides Dorian backward, onto him, slowly, deeper, oh deeper again.  Under the moon, under the trees that move gently in the breeze now blowing off the sea, they move together, slowly at first, then with increased desperation.  Bull pants, lowers his head, raises a hand from Dorian’s hip to pull at one horn as he slips away from himself, toward release. His hand comes away sticky, and oh _teth a!_ the blood, it shines darkly, wetly in the moonlight.  Before he knows what he’s doing, his fingers are in his mouth, he groans around them.  He reaches around Dorian’s hip, takes his cock in hand and grips it.  Dorian gives a long, desperate moan, fucks forward greedily into Bull’s fist, his hips snapping backward and he gasps, “ _Venio,_ Bull, I’m…”

“Come on, come for me, Dorian…” Bull pants, and then Dorian clenches around him, he throws his head back, and a rough, reedy moan escapes him.  The motion of Dorian’s hips stutters, and Bull pulls Dorian’s cock through his fist, the come sliding down his knuckles.  He groans, takes his hand from Dorian’s cock and approaches it to his mouth, bending forward slightly as he continues to thrust.  Dorian grasps the wrist and takes Bull’s fingers into his mouth, licking and sucking the come from them.  

  
The sight sends Bull skittering over the edge.  He thrusts twice, hard into Dorian’s ass, riding the edge of the sensation, then he falls.  Over the edge, down into the white abyss.  He holds his breath, fucking harder into Dorian, who gasps as his knees are scraped bloody on the forest floor.  “D-Dori-Dorian,” Bull moans, and then he comes, the scream of the dying dragon, her eye, the last things he sees and hears.  The Iron Bull roars.

**Author's Note:**

> Just a couple of things:  
> Although merm prompted me with the song mentioned in the summary (thanks, darl'!) I actually used the Queens of the Stone Age song ['The Blood Is Love'](https://open.spotify.com/track/0hfQQDvSwOMo6dh32FM6aB) for the title and for a couple of bits in the story. 
> 
> I also made up some Qunlat and some Tevene - as follows:  
> est ita difficile - it's so hard  
> taashost - calm yourself  
> venio - I'm coming
> 
> (there are other bits, but they're common enough, I think?) Okay, have to go have a lie down now.


End file.
